


My Versailles At Night

by artysgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Dean, Case Fic, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Songfic, Stanford Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-02
Updated: 2015-02-20
Packaged: 2018-03-10 04:23:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3276605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/artysgirl/pseuds/artysgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the fourth of July<br/>You and I were, you and I were fire, fire, fireworks<br/>I said I’d never miss you<br/>But I guess you’ll never know when the pages are all burned<br/>Going way back home on the fourth of July</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What If

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Songfic. It is based on “Fourth of July” by Fall Out Boy, meaning, among other things, that actual lines from the song will appear as dialogue, chapter titles, inner monologue, etc. I own nothing. Enjoy!

Dean loved movies with predictable endings. Loved, as in past tense. When he was a kid, he was all about the classic, formulaic Western with its good guys, bad guys, climactic fight scene and happy ending. Most people like films with twists and big shockers, but Dean just wanted the stability of a cookie-cutter ending.

It wasn’t like he got any stability from the _other_ parts of his life.

Regardless, he had seen every John Wayne movie about twelve times, so he really should have seen it coming. The pieces were all in place and the ending? Well, that shouldn’t have surprised anyone.

You could say it started with the stamped envelope lying on their table (“their” as in whatever motel John had dropped them off this time). To Sam Winchester. 450 Serra Mall, Stanford, CA. 49305. But if Dean was being honest with himself, clues started appearing long before then.

Straight As on assignments Dean would have tossed aside and forgotten about- because after all, they’re never at the same school for more than a couple months.

Meeting with guidance counselors. Dean used to tease him about those.

“What’s the matter, Sammy, got family issues you need to discuss? What was it this time, ghosts or werewolves?”

A computer search history that included golden phrases like _ivy league tuition_ and _scholarship opportunities_ and _can homeless kids go to college_. Damn, that last one stung. After everything they’d been through, Sam still considered himself homeless?

None of it matters anyway. Sammy is a lot of things and one of them is hell-bent on whatever it takes to get out of the family business.

Dean downs another whiskey. Two down. Infinite to go.

He tortures himself every few nights with this particular trip down memory highway. Everything reminds him of Sammy and what he could have done and what he should have done and the one thing he absolutely should not have done.

But that came later.

First were the arguments. The ones between him and Sam were more like cat fights, spitting loaded comments back and forth, insinuating more than either of them were man enough to say. The ones between Sam and John were like bar brawls, and someone always ended up metaphorically passed out in a back alleyway with a welt the size of Jupiter.

Dean had always thought of the college process as something foreign, like the behind the scenes of TV shows where people with more money and fame and success than you put on a puppet show. It turns out they’re actually time bombs that don’t tick, so you don’t even have a warning that they’re gonna blow up until you’re dead.

The day Sam asked him to drive him to the bus stop tomorrow ranks highly on Dean’s “worst days of my life” list. He almost said no. In retrospect, he wishes he did. It would have prevented the going-away day itself, which ranks as number one.

It wouldn’t have been as bad if Dean wasn’t in love with his baby brother.

Two more whiskeys down the hatch. The bartender is starting to give him sideways looks when she thinks he’s not paying attention.

A couple months after the acceptance letter arrived (full fucking ride, because of course it was. Sam is a friggin genius) Dean skipped school and headed to the public library. Unseemly behavior, the kind only freaks who hunt monsters would exhibit.

This time, it wasn’t in search of how to kill a wendigo or pronounce Latin incantations. It was for answers, specifically about incest and just how fucked up Dean really was.

After paging through study after study after psychobabble after condescending therapy advertisements, Dean came to one conclusion: the road to hell is paved with good intentions and loving your brother is one of them.

He resigned himself to pining for Sam from afar and sleeping with every girl, guy and other on sight. Not to mention getting drunk out of his mind whenever possible and maybe driving the Impala off a cliff.

But unlike Sam, Dean doesn’t have a motivational drive made of stone cold granite. So when he piled Sam and his lonely, droopy duffel into the car and drove him silently to the bus station, all he could think was how to stop this wreck from happening.

Dean Winchester figured he was the biggest idiot on spaceship Earth, but when he grabbed his 17-year-old brother by the jacket and kissed him hard, that basically confirmed it. To his credit, it wasn’t a very long kiss, or a kiss at all, really, more like a mosh pit of lips.

But that didn’t stop the stare from Sam that followed, the panicked look in his eyes, the way the blood rushed out of his face and the way he pushed Dean off of him like he never could during sparring practice.

It also didn’t stop Sam from getting out of the car without a word and walking away. But it did stop him from looking back, because he never actually got around to that.

Dean knew he was notoriously bad at goodbyes, but he had no idea he possessed the power to start his own personal apocalypse.

One more whiskey and they’re probably going to kick him out if he doesn’t pay up and leave.

He sat in that Impala for the longest time after Sam left. Long enough that two more buses came and went. It was like immediate post-traumatic shock and he’s been riding out the waves ever since.

The worst part is that he doesn’t remember the last thing Sam ever said to him. It was something that morning, before they left, but it’s like when Dean kissed his brother, he took an eraser to his own head and scrubbed out every memory that was actually important.

But damn, four years later and that kiss still plays out in his head every night. It’s like God took the record called “Dean Winchester” and snapped it in half. And now he’s trying to play it but the melody doesn’t work and all the choruses are missing.

Dean leans back and sighs, thumbs pressed into his forehead, trying to clear his consciousness enough to remember the room number of whatever dingy place he’s shacked up in tonight.

He’s about to order a glass of water when something just as cold and flavorless whispers in his ear.

“Hey baby, you look a little rough tonight. Why don’t we take the edge off?”

Of all the looks he carries, all the onceover impressions, the ambiguous sexuality sign seems to be flashing the brightest these days. He used to have chicks fall all over him. Now he’s got that plus every sleazy guy in a run-down bar.

Not that he hasn’t had his fair share of each.

Dean turns himself around to at least get a look at the guy before he signs on to another night of disappointing blow jobs, but then he sees the dude’s face and _crack, hiss, pop_.

Fireworks.

The man is tall, taller than Dean even when he’s leaning down and smirking in his face. He’s got floppy, dull hair that hangs in front of his eyes and a sneer that Dean might have punched off if he were in a better mood.

But his eyes.

Fireworks. _Boom._

Without a word, something in Dean’s expression must say, _yeah, I’d suck you off in a back room_ because the guy is straightening up and smiling like he’s won some shitty participation prize.

“You know a place?” Dean says, less to Shaggy than to the reflection of overhead lights in his irises.

Shaggy grins wider, shiny incisors flashing like police sirens, like stop signs and _do not pass go_.

 _Fuck it_ , Dean thinks. _If he has a condom, I’m going for it._

It’s not that he craves sex as much as he craves the numbness that accompanies an orgasm, no matter how pathetically created. Numb is Dean’s favorite feeling, has been for, oh, about four years now.

Shaggy doesn’t know that though. He just knows that he picked the prettiest weed in the garden and now he’s gonna set it up in a plastic vase, just for one night, just until it turns brown and crumbles apart in the morning.

The man whispers inane come-ons into Dean’s ear, punctuated by _baby_ every few seconds, as he drags him down a hallway so dark Dean forgets that the guy’s jeans are about to sag completely off his waist and his t-shirt obviously hasn’t seen a washing machine in quite some time.

A few minutes later and he’s on his knees. Oh, the girls love it when they find out burly Dean Winchester’s one hell of a sub in bed. He’ll even beg for it if you ask nicely. Or not so nicely.

The condom has been attained. It’s wrapper is ratty and well-worn. Shaggy probably carries it around in his pocket every Friday night, hits up all the local bars until he finds someone desperate enough to unwrap it.

Dean slides it onto Shaggy’s glistening cock, which is already hard and glistening with sweat and pre-cum. He’d almost feel sorry for the guy if he didn’t have a stranger’s hand tying knots in his hair.

Contrary to what- at this point- popular opinion would say, Dean can give a decent blow job. Hell, he can keep a dude on the edge until they’re whining like a stray dog. But that’s not a dirty sex act so much as it is an art form and Shaggy just ain’t the right muse.

Dean isn’t some sick twisted monster (I mean, at least he doesn’t imagine Sam’s cock in his mouth the _entire_ time)- he gives Shaggy a decent time. Even gives deepthroating a shot once or twice. But they’re here on business only and once his shift clocks out, he just pushes and pushes until Shaggy gives it up.

One hurried and frankly, chafing hand job later and Dean’s out the door, alcohol clouding the haze of mild regret that typically accompanies these excursions. The first time he gave himself over, he cried like a Catholic virgin who’s boyfriend wouldn’t take no for an answer.  

But at this point Dean is so impure that the Devil probably wouldn’t take him on as a plaything.

:::

He stumbles back to the good ole’ Motel 6 and maneuvers his way into a shower. Hot water that turns his skin lobster-toned alternated with frigid blasts. It’s not a hangover trick. It’s just another way to pass the time when you’re a walking corpse.

Dressed in a soft t-shirt (not-so-fun fact: he had to buy all new clothes after Sam left. They all smelled too much like him. The only thing he kept was the amulet Sam gave him when they were kids, and that’s stashed in the glove compartment of the Impala under about 500 McDonald’s wrappers) Dean considers calling John, meeting up for a case.

Over the past few years he slacked off the path of good soldier and stopped following Daddy around like a stray cat. Now he spends most of his time on his own, investigating the odd murder and drowning in cheap alcohol. But maybe some familial comfort would do him some good.

After all, that’s the fifth time in three weeks he’s let a stranger fuck his mouth. Somewhere along the line, he started picking trashed dudes exclusively.

There’s a frayed map of the U.S. on the wall. Carson City, his current hideout, highlighted by a giant red dot.

Stanford would be a day trip away. He lets himself consider it.

He doesn’t even know what Sam Winchester looks like anymore, or even if he goes by the family name. Hell, if his older sibling had the hots for him he’d probably get his name changed.

And at the same time, isn’t it worse? Isn’t it somehow even more twisted that he flat out ignores his brother, even the few calls that have been sent his way over the years?

Maybe it’s the whiskey (it’s probably the whiskey), maybe it’s the aftertaste of latex (it’s surely the whiskey), maybe it’s just Dean missing his brother (it’s definitely the whiskey), but he makes a snap decision. He’s gonna call Sam in the morning.

The last time he made a snap decision regarding Sam- well.

And with the taste of June gloom on his tongue, Dean commits the last sin of the drunken man and passes out.

 


	2. I’ll never know

Dean slots the thin roll of paper between his lips and pulls, inhaling a thick stream of smoke in through his mouth, letting the musky flavor seep into the pores of his tongue and creep down his throat. He waits until his body is full to bursting like a balloon, until his brain is pleading with him for air, and then he lets go.

Smoke seeps out of his body like a house on fire, a lazy distress signal.

He should have known, but to be honest the thought never crossed his mind.

Dean takes a moment to reassess the length of his joint, to consider how high he is and whether he needs to roll another.

He lifts the Bic lighter up and watches the tiny flame emerge. Lets it consume the paper, burn a smoking hole in it, considers lighting himself as well. Takes another hit instead.

If the joint is the fuse, the fireworks are the chemical reactions in his brain. Weed is a relatively new experience for Dean- he tried it once or twice during his high school years, but alcohol was always his personal brand of poison.

And yet, getting drunk sometimes isn’t enough to take the dull edge of loneliness away. It usually just strengthens it, and each time his glass empties he feels a brand new twinge. Marijuana sends him into a completely different state.

The joint has thinned considerably, so the next flame almost burns his fingers. Dean doesn’t mind. Heat and blood and aches are just another part of the job. They can’t hurt him as much as he wants them to anymore.

He doesn’t have a drug habit, yet. Yeah, there’s usually weed tucked into his bag somewhere, but he only rarely pulls it out. Only when alcohol isn’t enough.

Now he can really feel the effect of the drug sinking in. It’s like how he imagines slowly floating into the air- for a while, you’re on solid ground. But within seconds gravity is pulling you down while you’re being lifted up, up, up… _Jesus, he should lie down, maybe_.

Dean doesn’t believe in “happy places” or any of that hippy shit, but when he’s high he likes to imagine he’s lying on top of the Impala at night. Somewhere warm, but not so hot that his t-shirt sticks to the back of his neck with sweat. Somewhere where you can look up and see whole galaxies.

A memory prods at the back of his subconscious, one where a colored light show exploded up close and personal with blinding stars. He tries to shove it back down, but it’s too late.

_Sam._ Fuck, he should’ve known.

::

Yes, he called Sam. It was surprisingly easy. After literal years of anticipation, all he had to do was select a contact and press a button. It rang for so long, Dean was afraid he wouldn’t pick up, and his missed call would have looked like something desperate and longing and-

“Dean?”

“Sammy- Sam.”

_Silence._

“Are you okay?”

“I’m- yeah, Sam. I’m doin’ fine. But I was, uh, I was in the area and wanted to know if you wanted to… catch up.”

“Oh. Well.” _One unbearable pause later._

“I’m free tonight. There’s a bar we could go to.”

“Sounds good to me.” Dean listened as Sam recited the address. A place called The Old Pro. But he was so focused on the sound of Sammy’s voice that he could barely get the street name down.

His baby brother was no kid anymore. His voice was rougher, but still sweet around the edges. Deeper. Manly. It practically sent shivers down Dean’s spine.

“Anyways, I’ll see you at what, eight-thirty sound good?”

“Eight-thirty sounds just fine, Sammy.”

“Yeah. Okay then, Dean. See you.” Click. His voice had just a tinge of snark, just a tiny hint of sadness, or maybe even regret.

Four years was a long time. Sam probably had his own place now. Somewhere with posters or photos on the wall, and actual drawers and closets with clothes on hangers. A medicine cabinet packed with things that didn’t have to be stored away at a moment’s notice.

He probably hadn’t hunted in four years. After all, wouldn’t have been able to hide that from all the college friends he’d surely made. Sam was too easy-going and friendly for his own good. He had the worst time letting go of new friends.

Which made Dean’s proposition even _stupider_ , he thought, as he parked the Impala behind the bar he’d agreed to meet his brother at.

Here he was, at one of the world’s best universities, and he was going to ask his brother to run off with him, a washed-up alcoholic with a GED and a dash compartment filled with fake IDs.

And as he pushed his way into the door, he wondered if he’d even recognize his own estranged sibling. The one he kissed smack on the lips four years ago.

But who the hell was kidding, Dean might not know much but he knew Sam.

The first thing he registered was that Sam needed a haircut. The curls were starting to flatten out and creep down his neck. Sammy was facing away from him, sitting in a stool at the bar. He didn’t see Dean come in, so he took the opportunity to study his brother from a distance.

Oversized gray t-shirt, tan forearms. Hand holding a Bud Light. Classic college boy drink, damn. And Jesus H, that boy had gotten big. Dark denim jeans encased mile-long legs. He had to be at least a few inches taller than Dean.

Dean stepped closer and saw the outline of his face. Same big eyes, same strong jawline. Same nose, too. But he’d filled out more. He was so much older, so much more mature-looking.

Dean cleared his throat and took the seat next to him. Sam started and looked up, gave Dean the same onceover expression.

“Hey, Sammy.”

“Dean.” Sam stared at him, face a carefully constructed mask. “It’s been a while.”

“I know, Sam. That’s my fault.” Dean toyed with the hem of his jacket. He figured Sam would be confused, disappointed. Maybe even angry.

“It’s good to see you, though.” Sam nodded at that, keeping it composed.

“What made you finally call?”

“I figured it was time. Four years, I mean- I didn’t want to go any longer without seeing my brother.” Dean planned that out in the drive over. It seemed like a normal, sibling-type thing to say. Sam nodded again but didn’t respond. Kind of pursed his lips a little.

“Anyways, what have you been up to, college boy? Straight As, I’d expect?”

Sam’s lip twitched a little at that. Maybe an eighth of a smile.

“Yeah, I guess.” Hesitation. “How about you? Still working with dad?”

Working. As if they owned a car repair shop together.

“Sometimes. I do a lot on my own now though.”

Sam nodded. It was honestly pretty infuriating. Dean wished he could read minds just this once, just he could pry out every detail of the last four years of Sam’s life without this unending awkwardness.

Looking back, he can’t believe he spent this long away. Dean’s a curious guy by nature, and now he wants to know everything about Sam. He used to. Used to be able to read the contents of the kid’s day just by the way he shrugged his shoulders when he got home.

Now? This taller, stronger stranger in front of him could be anybody’s brother.

“Palo Alto’s a bit west for our line of business.”

“I drift around. Sometimes work odd jobs. Car stuff, mostly.”

Sam looked a little more interested at that. 

“So less hunting?”

“You could say that.” More drinking to make up for it. “But I don’t have any plans on leaving the life.”

Sam looks the opposite of surprised at that statement. Resigned, maybe. Almost like he doesn’t care enough to be disappointed, which makes Dean stomach roll. He used to put up one hell of a fight about Dean’s life choices.

“You still on track to be some high-profile lawyer?”

“Yeah. I took the LSAT. Did pretty well.” Dean doesn’t actually know what the LSAT is, or what doing well on it even means. But he puts on his best I’m-really-happy-for-you face anyways.

“I wouldn’t expect any less.”

“Mm-hm. So.” Sam raises his eyebrows expectantly. Dean stares back blankly.

“What?”

“You tell me.”

“Tell you what?”

“Dean. You show up out of the frickin blue after four years and you honestly just want to sit here and talk about _law school_?”

“I didn’t realize it was a crime to talk about your brother’s future with him.”

“Maybe not if you actually spoke to your brother every few months! At least called him up on Christmas! Or birthdays!”

Dean opens his mouth to retort but just lets air out instead. Sam’s right. He’s the human embodiment of the contents of the nearest trashcan.

“I’m sorry, Sam. I know I should have called. I couldn’t.”

“Until now.”

“My nine to five was cutting open old scars. It just seemed like the right time.”

“To do what, ask a favor?”

“No, Sam!” Just ask you to drop everything and hit the road. Much easier of a request, right?

“Well then what? You can’t honestly believe that we can just catch up at a bar and then you get to hit the road and everything gets all patched up. That things go back to- whatever. They used to. Be.” Sam looks a little edgy now. Maybe he’s remembering their last encounter.

Dean doesn’t know whether to backtrack, fight or flee. So he just goes for it, Winchester-style.

“I wanted to ask you if you would take a trip with me.” Sam’s eyebrows shoot up. He looks like someone just told him they were stealing his dog or something.

“You what?”

“A trip! A roadtrip! It wouldn’t have to be permanent or anything. I could bring you back or whatever. I don’t know. You’re graduating soon.”

“Yeah, but Dean-”

“I know you want an apple pie life, believe me, I haven’t forgotten. But that doesn’t mean we can’t be brothers anymore. You don’t have to join the family business or drop your life ambitions or whatever, but maybe every once in a while-”

“Dean, I can’t just go on a spontaneous June family road trip, I have-”

“You have a life now, I get it. I’m not asking you to put your life on hold, all I’m asking is-” Dean has to stop there because his head is spinning and his heart rate is all elevated and he’s not really sure _what_ he’s asking Sam for at this point. And it’s too late because Sam has seized the opportunity to speak.

“Dean, I can’t go anywhere. I have an interview for a full ride at Stanford’s law school. Monday. And I have- I have a girlfriend.”

It’s like someone just came up behind Dean and smashed a raw egg over his head. First the shock, then the sticky, terrible realization that _of course Sam has a girlfriend_. Sam is irresistible, no one knows that better than Dean.

Dean knows it all too well.

Every thought, every little plan he’d come up with that involved Sam miraculously leaving college town and heading into the backwoods with Dean falls to the floor. Shattered pieces include any hope he could have for the future. How could he have been this dumb?

But he doesn’t say anything. He sits there and lets Sam tell him all about _Jessica_ , perfect _Jess_ with her Stanford undergraduate degree in pre-med and her (probably) gorgeous face and (probably) adorable little smile. He might throw up. Or preferably just fall over dead.

And when that ordeal is over and Sam practically has rainbows leaking out of him, Dean pays the tab. And he shakes Sam’s hand (soft, smooth, has lost all the old callouses and marks left from fresh cuts). And he leaves.

And now he’s here. High off his mind in not so good of a place because _of fucking course_ Sam landed himself a one true love. He’s gonna marry that girl. Til death do him part. Dean will surely get an invitation to the wedding.

Hopefully no one will notice when he offs himself halfway through the service.

With his train of thought on the blitz, Dean lets himself relax into a near-comatose state, no movement, just the heavy feeling accompanied by a deep, marijuana-induced state of bliss. Sam’s face floats in front of him, an ethereal thing of beauty. If he could paint, he’d paint Sam’s smile. The one he flashed when he talked about his lovely little _Jessica_.

The shrill tone of his cell grabs Dean by the arm and jerks him out of his reverie. He blindly grabs for it from the side table, expecting Dad, but caller ID reads Sam Winchester. What is Sam calling for at 12:30 in the friggin morning?

Dean picks up. The first thing he hears is Sam sniffling. Scratchy noises through bad cell reception, but those are Sam's tears. And a siren in the back. Too close. Dean's body feels tight, restraining.

"Sam?"

The sniffling cuts of with a choked sob. Dean hasn't heard Sam cry like this for over five, six years. Something has gone horribly wrong.

"Sam, what is it?"

"The thing that got mom. It came here."

Dean still feels loopy from the pot, but the reminder of his childhood trauma is enough to grind his senses into overdrive. He's not sure if he can articulate words. Sam takes a deep breath for him.

"It got Jess. She's gone, Dean. Jess is dead."


	3. Stuck in your head

_Day One_

Dean’s entered some parallel universe hell. Yesterday he was lying in his questionably clean motel bed while he rolled around in self-pity and thoughts of Sam. Now, less than 48 hours later, Sam himself is lying in the same damn bed. Comatose. Well, he moves, but not much. And he doesn’t say anything.

Dean doesn’t really know what to do in this situation. He could try and talk to Sam but hell, that wouldn’t work. He didn’t know the girl. And he’s not sure he could talk about their love affair without barfing.

He fumbles with the room’s phonebook until he finds the least sketchy Chinese place that’ll do takeout.

“Sammy, you want dinner?” No answer. Dean turns around. Sam is lying facedown on the bed, arms scrunched under the pillow, hair splayed out around his buried face. He hasn’t changed position for at least an hour.

Dean sighs and pockets the keys to the Impala. Looks like he’s sleeping in the car tonight.

::

Later, when he’s forking kung pao chicken into his mouth, Dean flips off the grainy TV and directs his full attention to his brother. Sam might be sleeping, he honestly can’t tell. Either way, he doesn’t acknowledge Dean’s presence.

It was pretty bad when he picked Sam up. He was sitting on the side of the road with a baby blue shock blanket draped around his shoulders. All he’d given Dean on the phone was an address, and by the time he pulled the car up, the whole place had burned to the ground.

Uncontrollable fire. A young woman, burned alive.

Ceiling, probably. That’s how Mary went. Fucking demon sliced her abdomen in two and lit her up like a cake topper.

His brother said nothing on the drive home. The police officer had let him go without a second word. Somber, the whole thing was. Dean was used to the whole tragic accident scene, but this one was decidedly more unsettling than most. Damn demons.

Once he got Sam into the motel room the kid just sat on a chair. Still wouldn’t say a word until Dean asked if he needed anything.

Toothbrush. All his stuff was ashes.

Why’s it always gotta be Sam who loses everything? How many more times is he gonna have to restart his entire life until the universe or whoever the fuck is in charge decides to give the kid a break? He deserves it a hell of a lot more than Dean does.

By the time he’d gotten back from the CVS down the street, Sam had staked his claim on the bed. Potentially permanently.

Dean kind of wished he had cried or shouted or something. It’s easier to deal with trauma than nothing. How the hell do you fix nothing?

He tosses his takeout box in the trash and sets the lo mein he’d gotten for Sam on the nightstand, in case he wakes up hungry. Sammy loved lo mein when they were kids.

As he gets up to leave, he tentatively strokes Sam’s hair. It’s soft and curly under his fingertips, dark brown brushing against pale skin. No reaction. He didn’t expect one. He makes sure to check that the door is locked on the way out.

_Day Two_

Dean wakes up at five fifteen in the morning, his neck aching from hanging off the Impala’s backseat. His disentangles himself from the glove compartment and heads back to the room, pausing to knock at the door.

Nothing, of course.

So he cracks the door and peeks in. Sam is still laying on the bed, but at least he’s shifted position to face the window. And his lo mein container is gone.

Dean pushes the door open more, letting light slip in and dance up and down the walls. Sam rolls over to face himself, eyes bloodshot even from this distance. He looks like an addict going through withdrawal, all pale and shaky and deer-in-headlights.

“Heya, Sammy. You sleep well?”

Sam just looks at him. Alright, so that was a dumb question.

“You need anything, kid?”

“No.” One syllable, but hey, it’s still progress.

“You wanna talk about anything?” Jesus, he’ll try anything to get Sam’s attention. Including impersonating a therapist.

“No.” Alright, back to square one.

Dean settles himself in the striped, saggy armchair, knees splayed, leaning forward. The whole air of confidence look.

“You need some fresh air, Sammy.”

“Don’t call me Sammy.” Dean sits back so quickly he nearly gets whiplash. That’s just cold. If Sam wants to play that way, he’s game.

“I’m not shutting up until you say something to me. You can’t just lie around and do nothing, it ain’t gonna help.”

“... Fucking hypocrite.”

Dean is too surprised to even come up with a retaliation to that one. How the hell does Sam figure? Yeah, it’s true, but Sam shouldn’t know. He hasn’t seen Dean in  years. How could he possibly know that?

“You gotta be kidding.”

“I’m not. Leave me alone.”

Huh. The torture of small talk with someone you used to love. Or at least Sam used to tolerate him. Dean is officially stumped.

So he leaves. Yeah, he probably should have stayed. But Sam doesn’t want him there. And to be honest, Dean can’t take the apathy. A small, utterly despicable part of him is so happy that Sam is back, no matter what the circumstances. And Sam wanting to be anywhere else but by his brother’s side is a cold reminder that nothing is the same anymore.

He goes back to the bar he met his brother in. Orders a couple whiskeys. Gets fairly drunk. Sips beer, stares at college girls. Contemplates doing cocaine or shooting heroin or something equally stupid and reckless.

Decides Sam is just as addictive and heads back. Checks in. Lights all out. Sam is sniffling. Dean trudges out to the backseat.

_Day 3_

Dean has a plan. It’s not a very well-thought out plan. But even if it doesn’t work, he at least gets something out of it. And anything is better than another round of how-long-will-it-take-Sam-to-move-this-time.

He lets Sam sleep in a little, or do whatever the hell it is he does. At eight, he strolls in like he owns the place (well, technically, it’s his bill). Takes a seat in the all too familiar striped armchair. Takes his weed out of his pocket.

Sam was staring dolefully at the wall above his head until Dean started rolling a blunt. Now his eyes are trained on his brother’s action like a sniper rifle.

“Dean, what are you doing?” He sounds fairly uncomfortable. Dean smirks a little, just to himself. Sam was always such a straight-edge.

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Is that pot?”

“Yes, Sammy. Marijuana, also known as cannabis, is a psychoactive drug commonly used for-”

“Shut up. You smoke?”

“You know I smoke.”

“I know you smoked once. Behind a dumpster. With _Rhonda Hurley_.” Sam sounds out each syllable of Dean’s most exotic high school lover with outright disgust. Which is interesting, to say the least. He’s never showed that much venom toward Dean’s exes before.

“Well, we’re all grown-ups here.” Sam falls silent at that, and watching Dean carefully pack the paper and clumsily arrange it into something resembling a blunt. He’s no old pro. But his intention here isn’t to show off.

Dean eyes Sam behind the flame the lighter shoots up. He’s vaguely reminded of how his brother’s skin glows in the light of a thousand shining sparks.

The smoke curls around the end of the blunt like a dragon’s tail. Dean huffs and puffs and blows a thick stream of smoke in Sam’s direction. His brother doesn’t shy away from it. On the contrary, he leans forward, watching Dean with the trained eyes of a studious apprentice.

“What, you want a hit?”

“No.” Liar. Sam lies the exact same way he lied when he was a kid. Answers way too quickly. Face goes way too blank.

“Well, alright then.” Dean takes his sweet time, really inhales with each click of the lighter. Lets out air in steady streams, in open-mouthed puffs. Even out his nostrils once or twice. Sam keeps staring like a kid at the petting zoo.

As the blunt gets progressively shorter, Dean slumps further into the seat cushion, letting the atmosphere swallow him up like a drowning man in a wide, blue sea. His eyes glaze over and his pulse slows.

“What’s it like?” Sam’s voice is a beacon, guiding him to a safe shore.

“What’s what like?”

“Being, uh, high.” There they go.

“It’s calm. Everything is calm. No shakiness, no jolts or shakes or surprises. The whole world slows down until you’re focusing on everything and nothing at all.” Dean makes his description vague on purpose, slurs his vowels just right. Watches Sam with the gaze of an enamored man.

“I wanna try.” And Bingo was his name-o.

Dean sits up, beckons Sam over. His brother hesitates, but slowly stands up, trods over. It’s the most Dean's seen him move in three days.

Dean shifts and has Sam squat down in front of him. He holds the rolled paper to his brother’s lips, instructs him to grasp it between the very outer edge of his lips, so that the paper doesn’t get damp. Lights it for him, tells him to breathe in slow and deep.

Sam coughs like a dying man and Dean tosses a water bottle at him.

“Why would anyone do that for fun?”

“Slow down, kiddo. You aren’t even high yet.”

Dean guides him through the motions a few times. After that, Sam insists on lighting it himself. He never did like being babied. And a little after that, he stops hanging on to the water bottle like a security blanket.

And a little after that they’re both stoned out of their minds.

Sam is obviously still raw from Jess. He doesn’t giggle like a teenager smoking out back during study hall. He sits there, contemplatively. Dean would accuse him of meditating or something equally girly if it weren’t for the red tracks making their way around his eyes.

“Dean, why’d you even come here anyways? Stupid.”

“S’not stupid. I missed my baby brother.”

“‘M not a baby anymore.”

“Still my brother.”

“You never cared about that before.” Sam slumps over. They’re both sitting in the middle of the bed now, facing each other like kids at a slumber party.

“I didn’t want to ruin anything.”

“You couldn’t. There wasn’t anything to ruin.”

“I wanted to let you live your own life.”

“Still coulda called.”

“Sorry.”

“You don’t sound sorry.” Dean rolls his eyes at that.

“Okay, _Samantha_.” Sam slugs him in the arm.

“Ow. Motherfucker.” Sam just looks at him, frowns and shakes his head.

“Kidding.”

“Why didn’t you call Dean?”

“Told ya already.”

“You’re not telling me everything. You had a hard time after I left.”

“Did I now?”

“Don’t lie t’me, Dean. Dad said.” Dean shakes his head, trying to clear the haze away for a minute.

“Wait, what? What did Dad say?”

“Said you were having a hard time. After I- after I left. _He_ still called.” Dean doesn’t know what to say to that. To the idea that John has a better relationship with Sam than him at this point, to the fact that John told Sam about Dean’s “hard time.” And then there’s the little stutter in Sam’s voice.  

“Well- I mean. You, uh. Left. Wasn’t used to that.”

“There was a lot that happened. That you weren’t used to. That we weren’t used to.” Shit. This wasn’t supposed to happen now. Later, maybe. After Sam was over Jess. And maybe when they weren’t high as shit.

“Sammy, I know things weren’t exactly kosher between us-”

“You kissed me, Dean.”

Damn it to hell. Why does he have to be so fucking stupid all the time? He prepares himself mentally for the rejection that’s surely going to follow but Sam just looks at him. Waiting.

“I know.”

“Why?” Dean shifts uncomfortably. They’re sitting awfully close for this conversation. He at least pictured them more separate in his mind.

“Seemed like the right thing to do.”

“We’re brothers.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious.”

“Shut up! We’re brothers. And I was leaving. And you kissed me.”

“I’m sorry, Sam. I don’t know what you want me to say.”

“Don’t apologize.” Sam looks a bit pissed now. Dean is royally screwed. This is gonna ruin any chance of them ever being real brothers again. Fuck.

“Okay, I won’t. Still shouldn’t have done it though.”

“I’m not trying to say you shouldn’t have done it.

“Don’t mess around, Sam.”

“I’m not!”

“No, dude, you just pointed out we were brothers.” Dean doesn’t even know what’s happening in the conversation at this point. If he’s not mistaken, he’s trying to convince _Sam_ they shouldn’t have kissed and unless he’s really out of it, this should be the other way around.

“So?”

“So it’s-” He can’t bring himself to say the word incest. Just the sound of that word in his head makes his stomach roll. “Wrong.”

“So is a lot of the shit we do. Fake IDs. Killing people.”

“Monsters, not people. And that’s different. That helps actual people.”

“Yeah, well us being together isn’t gonna hurt anybody.”

“The fuck are you going on about Sam? Look, I said I was sorry. I won’t ever do it again. Can we just drop it?” Dean clenches and unclenches his fist around the lighter. This isn’t how he expected this conversation to go. Sam wasn’t supposed to randomly change his mind about the whole thing, that’s just fucked up.

Dean looks up at his baby brother. His eyes are shut tight, like he’s trying to will Dean’s image away from him. And his cheeks are pink, which is Sam’s way of showing that he’s hiding something.

“I don’t want. I mean, I do want. I mean- I don’t know what I mean.”

“Sam, are you trying to tell me the kiss didn’t bother you or some shit?” Sam’s eyes fly open.

“It’s not shit!” Dean gets up, starts pacing around the room.  He doesn’t really want to be near his brother for this one. Too many emotions going through him. And it doesn’t help that Sam’s pupils are blown wide and his lips are red and slick and- oh, damn. Not again.

“No, it is, because I kissed you and you left. Didn’t even look back.”

“Yeah, Dean, I had a bus to catch.”

“Bullshit! You didn’t even say good-bye!” To his horror, Dean fills something welling up inside of him. Repressed emotions he never wanted to think about again. If they keep this up, he’s gonna lose his fucking mind.

“Yeah, ‘cause I didn’t know _what_ to do, Dean! You waited until the very last minute and I was all ready to go and then you just- damn it.” Sam’s voice cuts off with a choked sound. Dean chances a glance toward the bed. Well, looks like he’s not the only one in danger of tears.

They're quite possibly the most dysfunctional sibling pair to ever have existed.

“I need a shower.”

::

Dean manages to keep his cool while he fusses with the creaky old plumbing. Once the water’s sufficiently not freezing, he climbs in. But then he loses it.

Damn, he hasn’t cried like this in a long time.He doesn’t even know what emotion he’s feeling. Anger? Yeah, at John, for snitching on him to Sam. And Sam, too, for fucking him over and leaving without a word.

But hell, even if Sam had said good-bye, even if he hadn’t flipped a shit and abandoned Dean, what then? Is he suggesting there might be something between them? Because apart from fucked-up fantasies Dean hasn’t even allowed himself to consider that possibility.

Ridiculous as fuck, that’s what it is. They can’t just run off and be boyfriends together.

_But at the same time, why the hell not?_ Because he’s your brother, you ass. _And he wants you to kiss him._ And you’re the oldest! You’re supposed to watch out for him, not make out with him!

Dean empties half a bottle of shampoo over his head and scrubs violently. Water mixes with his tears until slowly, his chest stops heaving and his breathing gets under control.

Ten minutes later and he steps out the bathroom, clad in a t-shirt and jeans, blanketed by a thick wall of steam.

Sam is waiting for him, perched on the edge of the armchair. Eyes still red, although it could be from either the crying or the weed. Or both.

Dean didn’t plan on saying anything more on the matter tonight, but the sight of Sammy looking so vulnerable has his heart doing all sorts of ridiculous stunts again. They stare at each other a moment, the only sound being the drip of the leaky faucet in the background.

“I wish I knew.” That was Dean’s voice, although he can’t recall forming the words. Sam looks like he’s about to respond when the shrill tone of Dean’s cell calls out. Jesus, when did he get so damn popular?

It’s right next to Sam on the dresser. His brother picks it up and flips it open. His eyes widen a bit.

“Dad.”

Oh yeah, that’s the other thing. Their old man, who would probably dig his own grave if he ever found out his two boys locked lips.

Dean’s about to reach out but Sam already has the phone pressed up to his ear.

“Hey Dad, it’s Sam.” Quiet. “No, I’m with Dean.” Another pause. “It’s a long story.” Sam flinches. Poor kid.

Dean’ surprised Sam can even speak to Dad with a straight face. The last time he witnessed a conversation between his father and his brother, things got smashed in the process.

Now, he can hear John barking out commands on the other end, but he can’t pick out anything except “case” and “boys” and “get here.”

Sam nods a lot, thinks a lot. Dean can tell he’s thinking by the way his forehead scrunches up. It’s kind of adorable, actually. And then he hangs up. Turns to Dean.

“Time to pack up, I guess. We’re going to Missouri.”


	4. If you get me

“Colin, stop being a dick.” Brock elbowed him roughly in the chest. “You’re gonna make me lose.”

The air in Jameson, Missouri was perfect- not too arid, not too wet, just the slightest hint of a breeze. It was a gorgeous summer day, perfect for long walks and neighborhood block parties. Kids played in their backyards while birds twittered loudly over their heads.

In a basement that smelled faintly of air freshener and old socks, two high school seniors battled over FIFA.

“I’m not bein’ a dick man, you just suck at this game.”

“Yeah, well you suck dick!”

“Shut up, dude!” Colin reached around to smack the back of Brock’s head, which resulted in a tussle that left them ignoring the game and seeing who could pin the other one down on the ratty old afghan they were sitting on.

“Man, I think you bent my glasses!”

“Shit, really?”

Brock used the lapse in Colin’s attention to scamper away and arm himself with a broom.

“Nah, bitch.” Colin reached for a game controller to throw at Brock’s head, then scowled and leaned back against the faded blue couch.

“Fine. You win if you go get me snacks… bitch.”

“Fair.” Brock tossed the broom aside and trudged up the stairs.

Colin resumed playing his game, although his eyes were starting to burn every time he stared at the screen. He tried looking away for a few seconds and looking back. He tried scrubbing at them with the back of his hand and blinking. If anything, it was getting worse.

A few minutes later and he felt like they were going to burn their way out of his skull. Hands pressed against his forehead, he vaguely wondered if it was summer allergies kicking in.

And then there was a sharp, shooting pain and nothing.

“Dude, I got those hot Cheeto things-”

_Thunk._ Cheetos scattered across the carpet.

“ _Colin!_ ” The boy’s eyes were tightly closed and there was blood leaking out from under his eyelashes. His mouth was agape and his hands lay limp by his forehead.

Brock knelt by his friend and slowly reached out to his face. Gently, he probed at an eyelid and pushed it open.

Empty socket. Brock fell backwards and pushed himself away from Colin, bile rising in his throat. He looked up, partly because there was a blood splatter careening across the floor in front of him, partly because he couldn’t stand to look down.

There, with the FIFA game still playing behind it, was an eyeball, smashed against the screen.

Brock opened his mouth and screamed.

::

Dean tossed a tube of toothpaste and a black t-shirt into his bag. That was it. Everything packed. So long, Stanford U.

He turned to face Sam, who was curled up on the armchair with one of those travel brochures every hotel has. It said something about mini golf.

“Is there a reason you’re investigating the tourist traps of the city you’ve lived in for four years?”

Sam looks up at him guiltily and drops the brochure in the trash. 

“No.” Pink cheeks told a different story. Dean rolls his eyes and turns back without another word. Zips up his bag. Checks to make sure he didn’t forget his phone charger. Checks for any more calls from John. Checks to make sure Sam is still a functioning human being.

Can’t be too careful.

“You ready?” Sam nods. It’s kind of strange, kind of monumental, this motel. It feels an awful lot like an ending. Sometimes endings are good, like ending a bad relationship or a long overdue T.V. show. Sometimes they’re bad and sometimes they’re just, well, the end.

Dean isn’t sure what kind of ending this is.

But when he goes to set his duffle in the backseat of the Impala, he takes a moment to subtly dig Sam’s amulet out of the glove compartment and put it on. He examines his reflection in the Impala’s side mirror. He hasn’t worn the necklace for years, but the weight of it feels normal against his chest. Dean is vaguely reminded of his teenage years, of girls who giggled over how cute his jewelry was.

He tucks the carved piece under his shirt and goes back inside to find his passenger, who is now perusing a piece on “The Center for Visual Arts.”

“Dude, seriously?” Sam closes the little booklet with a soft sigh.

“Sorry. Everything packed?” Everything but Sam’s motivation.

“Do you even want to go on this hunt? Isn’t it a little, I dunno, soon?”

“No. I have to do this.”

“No one’s forcing you, Sam. Dad and I can handle a murder mystery on our own.” Sam stands up, pads over to the dusty window.

“I want this. I wanna avenge Jess.” Yes, because that’s a healthy mindset when hunting the paranormal.

Hearing Sam say the words that John had uttered so many times before stuck in Dean’s mouth like a bad aftertaste. His little brother was supposed to be idealistic and ambitious, not stuck in the past.

“And this is how you wanna go about doing that.”

“There’s no other way.” Sam turns around to look at Dean then, and his eyes hold something new, something deep that can’t be blinked away. “Family business, right?”

Right. Saving people. Dean wouldn’t mind being on the receiving end of that sometime.

“Well, then. If you’re ready, we have a twenty-three hour drive I’d like to get started.”

This isn’t what he had in mind when he proposed roadtripping the other night at the bar. But as he turns the ignition and blares AC/DC, as Sam tosses his tapes around and makes fun of his mullet rock collection, he can’t help but think that maybe everything is gonna turn out okay.

::

“Dean, can we stop at a Wal-Mart or something? I’ve been wearing this shirt for days. It’s gross.”

“Yeah, they might have some burlap sacks big enough to fit you.”

“Shut up. Shorty.”

“Did you just call me short?”

The jives are well-practiced, as familiar as the sun setting and rising. It’s only been seven hours in and Sam has already asked to drive twice. Dean finds himself horrified at the suggestion and found no qualm in telling Sam so, which resulted in several arguments. Just stupid sibling stuff. It’s remarkable how quickly they’ve slipped back into their routine, like the last four years never happened.

“We’ll go in the morning. I don’t wanna hit up any of those 24-hour whatever-marts. The people in those things are freaky, Sam.”

“What, freaky like a family of monster hunters?”

“Sammy, please.” Dean feigns offense. “Freaky like they wear their underwear on the _outside_ of their clothes.”

“Somehow I think facing down demons, ghosts and every mythological creature in Odysseus is a bit scarier.”

“The real monsters are people, sometimes.”

“That’s deep. Did you get that from The Sopranos?”

“Quiet. I like this song.”

Dean hums along to Black Dog by Led Zeppelin for a few minutes until Sam interrupts again.

“Don’t you ever get tired of just driving all over the place and never stopping anywhere?”

“Whaddya mean?”

“I mean you’ve seen more of the continental U.S.A. before you’re thirty than most Americans see their entire lives, but you never actually stop anywhere. It’s just the same back roads and interstate.”

“Yeah, well, there’s not too much to be said about a billion identical hick towns in fuck all, Nebraska.”

“I know, but Dean don’t you ever wanna go _somewhere_? That actually means something besides-”

Dean cuts him off by singing the chorus of Black Dog extremely loudly and extremely off-key.

_Ah yeah, ah yeah, ah, ah, ah. I gotta roll, can’t stand still, got a flaming heart, can’t get my fill._

Sam looks like he’s going to push the issue, but a couple more stanzas of Dean’s “singing” and he looks out at a passing field instead.

Dean watches his back of his brother’s neck, imagines what it would be like to press kisses into every crease and fold of his skin.

Wonders if Sam would ever accept the fact that he has everything he needs right here, staring out the window as the open road flies by.

::

“Good morning, sunshine.”

“Ugh. What? What time is it?” Dean grins at Sam’s scrunched-up expression and weakly flailing arms. A few seconds ago, his head was practically lolling out the window, illuminated by the bright sunlight of 7 a.m.

Dean shoves a warm paper cup into his hand.

“I got you your disgusting red-eye whatever coffee.” He’s pretty proud of himself for remembering Sam’s caffeine order.

His brother picks the sleep out of his eyes with one hand and accepts the coffee with his other.

“Thanks.” He takes a sip.

“I haven’t had this in ages. I guess I missed your early morning company.”

Dean feels a glimmer of pride. College, schmollege. He still knows Sammy better than anyone.

“There’s a Sears a couple miles up the road. We can get you t-shirts with your favorite boy band on them.”

Sam gives him a look that manages to express contempt, the promise of death and pure, unadulterated sass all at the same time.

The ten minutes it takes them to get to the department store is uneventful. Sam drinks his disgusting coffee concoction. Dean taps his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the music. He idly wonders how his life turned upside down so quickly. Just last week, he was dragging himself through living hell for the ten billionth time. Now, he’s singing along to the freakin’ radio and there’s a beautiful boy sitting next to him.

Sam browses the clearance rack in the Men’s section with the ease of trained professional. The Winchester family was never one for cashmere sweaters, after all. His brother buys a lot of plain tees, every plaid shirt the store has to offer and an armful of jeans. Deans sneaks in a red stripe-y shirt and some ridiculous two dollar purple thing with a dog on the front. Sammy always wanted a dog.

“Next stop, Rent-A-Suit?” Dean snorts.

“Yeah, I’m not putting a monkey suit on until the last possible second.”  

Sam smiles, but it slides off his face like it was coated with melted butter.

“I had a pretty decent one back home. Guess that’s ashes now.”

Dean keeps his face steady when Sam references Stanford as home, ‘cause that really sucks, no other way to put it.

“Don’t worry, kid. I’ll buy you shiny new cufflinks for your birthday.” No chick flick moments allowed.

::

Back in the Impala, Sam is tearing price tags off his new clothes. He shoves most of them in his new duffel bag, then strips off the wrinkled gray thing he’s wearing.

Dean tries to keep his eyes on the road, really, he does, but he can’t help but let them wander. Sam is tan, really tan, no doubt from all that California sun. Plus, he’s got nice abs.

_Stop it._ Dean concentrates on each passing line of highway divider. _Think about every gruesome crime scene you’ve encountered_ \- goddamn, those biceps should be illegal.

Thankfully, Sam slips a toned red flannel over the offending muscles and Dean lets himself breathe again. He’d better find a way to control _that_ particular impulse, considering the amount of room-sharing that goes on in his family.

Sammy’s hair is all mussed up now. Before he can reconsider, Dean reaches over and pushes a few stray curls behind his brother’s ear. They look at each other for a few seconds, but before he lets any of his emotions get the better of him, Dean turns back to the unending stretch of road in front, slides in another tape. _I’m sorry every song’s about you._


End file.
